Formal Weather Patterns
by holygoof101
Summary: When life is just one big weather disaster, where do you end up? A follow up to Someday, Somehow. Finncentric future Finchel one shot.


A/N: Surprise the title actually doesn't come from the song inspiration. There's a four part repeated soundtrack to this one. I like to believe it enhances the reading experience so just in case anyone cares it goes I Saw - Matt Nathanson, There Tonight - Every Avenue, End of the World - Ingrid Michaelson, Room at the End of the World - Matt Nathanson. Alright read, review, enjoy. I hope I made up for all the dark and twisty.

He's got no idea what day it is. He's not even totally sure exactly where he is. It's just another night in another crappy motel. There's too much light bleeding in through the closed blinds for him to sleep. He can hear thunder and the hard rain that's hitting against the window. The hard rain that's he's fairly sure is starting to drip down the walls because it's been five hundred and fifty years since the windows have been replaced. Rain helps most people sleep. But he's not most people. All rain ever does for him is make him wonder if his life is just one big weather disaster.

He's not some naive kid any more. He's traveled; he's been places he'd never thought he'd go. He's listened to other peoples stories. He's learned sometimes life can take a hold of you and just throw you on its whirlwind path and it's not your fault and there's not a damn thing you can do to stop. It's like getting caught in a hurricane. The winds start blowing and then the flood comes and you can't stop any of it from moving you and then the tornado hits and before you know you're so far from where you started that you can't even remember how you got to where you are. And it all happens in what seems like moments. He's learned this has been happening to him since he was sixteen.

Since he was sixteen when the girl he thought he loved was having a baby he did love until it wasn't his. Until it belonged to his best friend. And then when he was seventeen and the girl he did love tore  
>his heart out of his chest and then handed it back to him still beating, but at least she owned up to it on her own. And then when he was eighteen and found out everything he'd ever thought he knew about<br>his family, about his dad the man he wanted so much to be like and make proud, that was all a lie too. And he's never been able to understand why people he loved thought it was okay to lie to him. He probably never will.

He thinks that's when he really started getting swept up in the flood waters. And he just grasp at straws, trying his dimmest to cling to anything that would stabilize him. And that was Rachel. She may have  
>hurt him but she never lied to him and she was everything and the only thing good he had. He knows he didn't realistically think it out back then, everything that could happen, and everything that would push against them. How it would be like them against the world. But he wanted to build a future around her. He wanted to build his future with her. He just never thought the tornado would rip him away from the branch he was grasping.<p>

The rain against the window acting as his reminder may have stopped for now but there's a  
>binder full of post cards sitting on top of his suitcase that will gladly remind him.<p>

The last time he packed his bag in front of her is still burned into his mind. He stood in her bedroom putting the laundry she'd done for him into his bag as he told her it was the last time he'd be able  
>to do that and she didn't try to stop him. A post card of the Brooklyn Bridge doesn't change that memory.<p>

He spent the first few months after that trying to play her out of his system. He used the stage as a way to forget. Every night he went out on that stage and played until the only energy he had left went into  
>putting the beer bottle to his lips. A post card of the Brooklyn Bridge doesn't change that either.<p>

He doesn't think he needs saving. But It's nights like this he wishes the rain made him sleep the way it does for normal people. It's nights like this he wishes he could just forget.

00000

It's a clear beautiful night. If there weren't a million bulbs of light pollution you'd be able to count every star in the sky. In a place like this it's the kind of night people on vacation wish for so they can enjoy the lights of the city.

He used to marvel at all the city lights himself once upon a time long ago. Back when he had someone to call and tell all about how awesome it all was. Back when people listened to his stories. Back when he was still excited about this life and it was all new. Back when he could hear the excitement in voices as he told the story of the show he'd just played.

He used to love nights like this on the road. When they would get in the van and drive away and the farther they got away from the lights to more awesome it looked. There was always a certain point in the night drive when the road was just enough out of the city when the city lights would start to resemble stars and you couldn't tell where the really stars ended and the city began. He used to love just watching out the window as that happened.

That was back when he had someone to share it with. Back when he was excited to send the post cards that are in that damn binder that just taunts him now. Before the first question anyone every asked was 'when are you coming back?' Before he got tired and worn out.

Now it's just all old to him. He doesn't marvel at anything anymore. Because now every city looks the same. The lights they just hurt his eyes. And when he's driving out of the city he prefers it to be overcast so he can at least see straight.

0000

There's a cold wet sensation burning his skin as the snow sticks against his three days unshaven beard. It's so cold and the snow is coming down so hard for a moment he's afraid his hand may stick to the metal of the mail box in front of the motel. He wonders for a moment why he even still bothers. He wonders if this is leading her on, or if he's still clinging to some kind of false hope. 'Someday, somehow.' That's what her only card to him said and he wonders if there ever will be a someday.

He's never thought of snow as a kind of weather disaster. It comes down maybe it messes up a day or two sometimes a couple of weeks but it doesn't take you away. In fact when it comes down hard enough it sticks and it stays around for a while. And it forces you not to go anywhere.

Snowy days like this make him miss home. And when he misses home he misses Rachel even more. He's never really admitted it out loud but he's talked to himself about it a lot. About missing her. He blames himself for that though. He wishes everything could have been different back then. He couldn't take her with him, and he would have never asked that of her anyway because she wouldn't have been happy. And he couldn't promise her things were going to be different. He couldn't give her want she wanted because what she wanted was for him to know what he wanted and he just didn't know. But she kept waiting. She was still there every time he came back. She never asked him to stay. She never asked him to give it up for her. She wanted him to have something that made him happy, she wanted him to have his own dreams and she wanted him to chase them so he could figure out what made him happy. He knows that's why she kept waiting. But he took too long and eventually the waiting for him to figure it out started making her unhappy and the one thing he had always had figured out was that he never wanted her to be unhappy. It started getting harder to leave. The long phone calls and Skype sessions while he was on the road turned into quick hellos and short goodnights. Then the fighting started. But she was still there every time he came back. But she wasn't happy. She never said that but he could see it on her face, in her eyes, every time he came back he could see it.

And when he told her it was the last time he was coming back and she didn't try to stop him he figured he'd done the right thing. It took a binder full of post cards to make him realize that she was just waiting for him to figure it all out. And maybe she still is. And that's a problem when five hundred and fifty years later he still doesn't have it figured out.

It was pouring down snow the day he left. Sometimes he wishes had been like the snow. No that's not true anymore. It used to be sometimes now all the time he wishes he had been like the snow that day and just stuck around.

0000

It's another night in another city and another night in a crappy motel room in yet another place that he has no idea where it actually is. There's a harsh wind blowing outside. If he were drunk he might mistake the sounds of it for a train because it sounds like it's going to blow the window clean out at any moment. The howl of it sounds like something he should worry about but really all he wants to do is sleep because he can't remember the last night he actually got a decent night's sleep without the aid of  
>complete exhaustion or alcohol.<p>

However he's hit the point where he's so tired he can't even think about sleeping. So he's stuck mindless flipping through the channels because he's stuck alone with his thoughts and thinking is the last thing he wants to do. He stops on the Weather Channel. He actually watches the Weather Channel a lot. It's consistently included in the channel selection no matter how terrible the place he's staying is and well he can relate to the Weather Channel.

Tonight there's the hurricane crew is out, they're explaining how all the winds are a residual product of the storm that's in the water. It's not going to hit the land but it's going to say hello, they say.

He's never experienced a real hurricane, other than his life. But despite the thousands of people telling him thousands of different stories over the year he remembers someone telling him about one of the major ones that made landfall. He can't remember exactly which storm it was but he remembers that the person who told him the story describe the aftermath as apocalyptic. Like everything was gone and it seemed like the world was ending. If that story was true he had no right to compare his life to a hurricane.

But thinking about that story, the way the person had described it. The way he was told it was like a bomb went off and nothing was recognizable. The way all you had was what you had with you and who was standing beside you. Thinking about that he can't help but wonder what the end of his world would look like. What would he cry about losing? Would there be anyone there with him anyone standing beside him or had he just burned through it all? Did he even want anyone there with him? Or did he  
>really want to just be standing there is the mess of everything gone and all alone?<p>

The sound of a crash against the window snaps him from his thoughts. Again he'd gotten stuck thinking and that's still the last thing he wants to be doing. And the Weather Channel is still talking about hurricanes, so he starts mindlessly changing the channels again.

There's zombies on the next channel. Funny how he can relate to the zombies too, he feels like one sometimes. So he stops to watch the zombie movie, except the damn zombie movie is about a zombie apocalypse. So now he's watch people trying to save people they love from zombies and figuring the apocalypse was probably caused by a hurricane and that's why there's even people they love with them to save. And now again he's back to wondering what if a hurricane zombie apocalypse came through would he have anyone to save?

He lets a bitter grin cross his lips. You have to be home to have people to save. You have to have a home for a hurricane to destroy for it to seem like an apocalypse. And it's been years since he's had a real place to call home. A room at his parents' house doesn't count. A room a room anywhere doesn't count. If it did he could call hundreds of hotel rooms home. He's got a binder full of post cards that could tell him all the places he could call home because honestly there's so many he can't even remember them all.

The bitterness leaves his face as he thinks about that binder of post cards. If there's an apocalypse, if a hurricane destroys everything there's really only one place he's every called home. He's not sure why he's just realizing this now but he is. It's like the eye of the hurricane is passing over him and he's having this moment of clarity. If everything's blown down it wouldn't matter to him. Because home's never been a place. It's not a room anywhere. And it's nothing a hurricane can blow away.

000

It's a clear day but it's freezing. Even with gloves on he still needs to tuck his hands in his pockets as  
>makes his way along the slush covered sidewalk. He remembers days like this. Days when he had to take drastic measures to maintain his balance just walking. Days when the cold hit his bones despite the layers of clothing he had on. Days when all he wanted to be was home and warm.<br>Home. Days when all he wanted to be was home. And it's been a long time since he's felt that way.

He hasn't thought this all through. There's no plan. He has no idea what's going to happen or if there's anything to plan, his life is kind of this big cycle of having a path but no plan. And he kinda wants to plan again. Maybe it took thinking about what he wanted if a zombie apocalypse happened but he knows what he wants and he's completely positive it's all he's ever wanted.

But that doesn't mean he's got a plan. And he probably should have thought out a plan considering it's about three degrees outside and it may take a while. Luckily he's able to slip right in the door as someone is coming out. It only takes him a second to find box 3C but his trembling hands hold him up. He's not sure if they tremble because he's still freezing or if it's his nerves. He can't remember the last time he was actually nervous over something so he's just going to tell himself it's because he's still so cold. But whatever makes his hands tremble it makes takes longer inside than he wanted it too. And now he can't deny his nerves. He takes in a deep breath of the warm air before he walks outside to cross the street.

He really should have thought this out better, because going into the warmth just made him feel how cold it was outside even more. A wet slush kicks behind him as he jogs across the street and he almost slides into the steps as he stops at the stoop he plans to sit on. He braces himself for a moment because he knows the initial feeling of taking a seat isn't going to be a pleasant one. All the days he spent missing this weather now he wonders why. But it doesn't matter because he's going to sit there on that stoop and watch the door across the street for as long as he has to, or until he gets hypothermia, which ever happens first.

But someone must be on his side because he doesn't have to sit for too long. He has to squint a little bit and make sure it's her at first but as soon as she hits the bottom step he knows. And in that second he's pretty sure he wants to throw up because it's either throw up or run and he's done running. His lips curl into a smile as he watches her from across the street. For a moment he can't tell if she's almost thirty or fifteen because it's always like nothing ever changes between them. It's like he can predict her every move and it's the most settling feeling. The way her hand touches her face. The fight in her expression that finally gives way to a full smile. And even from that distance he's pretty sure he can see tears glistening down her cheeks as her head slowly turns. As she finally sees him. Not just him standing there across the street but he knows she finally sees him for the first time in years.

There's been hundreds of post cards he's sent but he knows as she finally sees him and their eyes meet and they both slowly smile without moving... And her head nods at him. Well he knows that only  
>postcard that matters is the one in her hand at that moment. And it's that face. That expression. That girl. She's his calm. In any weather, in anything ever, she's the calm. And she always has been. That's why he kept sending post card after post card. And that's why he never could let go. And he's finally got it figured out.<p>

So the hundreds of post cards before they don't matter. The only that does is the one with a picture of the Brooklyn Bridge that asks 'Can I come home?'


End file.
